Project Apex (3 page)

"Apex team." The soldier grunted.

"You look pretty messed up there. You need some help."

"I'm fine."

"You're shot."

"It's fine."

"You don't look fine. I see an exit hole on your back I could fit my fist through, let me -"

The soldier was silenced by a single gunshot as the wounded Apex team soldier calmly unholstered the pistol on his belt and shot him in the head. He watched for a moment as the soldier fell against the sandbags, his helmet rolling off into the gutter, the back of his skull a ragged mess. Satisfied, that the intrusion was over, the Apex soldier turned back to the man who had fallen from the roof. Akhtar recognised him. His name was Abu, and always seemed to be quiet and polite. He owned a market stall selling grains and vegetables from which Akhtar would on occasion buy groceries for his mother. Abu was skinny and posed little threat, especially now with a broken leg and a bullet wound to the shoulder, which was staining his white shirt a vivid maroon colour. In contrast, the soldier’s wounds which should have been infinitely worse to the point of being disabling or even fatal were now barely bleeding at all, and certainly weren't doing anything to stop him functioning normally.

"Who sent you?" the Apex soldier said in perfect Arabic to his frightened prisoner.

Abu pursed his lips and didn't answer, staring with defiance at the Apex soldier.

"Who sent you?" the soldier repeated.

"You can interrogate me all you like. I will not speak." Abu said, his voice trembling.

"I don't have any intention of interrogating you," The soldier said.

Akhtar stared in disbelief as the soldier grabbed Abu by the throat and shoved him back into the burning wreckage of the car. Abu began to scream and thrash as the flames ate his flesh, and yet the soldier didn't flinch or deviate, even as the flames did the very same thing to his own arms. He held them in the flames until Abu stopped screaming, and then dropped the hissing, foul-smelling corpse into the fire to let the flames finish the job. He stepped back from the burning wreckage, arms burned black, great cracks exposing the fleshy raw muscles beneath. Akhtar looked on as the soldier approached, whistling and unaffected by the wounds which should have killed him. The Apex soldier stopped by the entrance to the alley and looked at Akhtar, who cowered away in fear. Now that he was in close proximity, Akhtar could see the yellow markings on the soldier’s skin weren’t paint, but veins running under his skin. The ones on his arms were lost in the devastating burns, but the ones in the soldier’s neck and face pulsed in stark relief against his skin. The soldier reached down with a blackened hand and picked up Akhtar's football and held it out to Akhtar, eyebrows raised. Too afraid to reach out for it, the young boy could do nothing but stare, wondering if he too was about to be killed. The soldier shrugged and rolled the ball into the alleyway, where it came to a stop against Akhtar's leg. There was a bloody black handprint on the leather where the ball rolled to a halt.

"Keep practicing with that, boy. You have some skill." The soldier said calmly and in flawless Arabic, then walked away, soon lost into the cloud of thick smoke that had enveloped the street.

CHAPTER THREE

CAMP BLANDING JOINT

TRAINING CENTER

CLAY COUNTY,

FLORIDA

SITTING ON THE EDGE of Kingsley Lake, Camp Blanding served as the primary training centre for both the Florida National Guard and the Florida Army National Guard. Located just thirty-six miles from Jacksonville, the camp was a hive of activity for recruits as they prepared for combat either in simulated situations or on one of the onsite live firing ranges. Acting as something of a revolving door for those looking to sharpen their skills, Camp Blanding often housed a mixture of both Special Forces units and regular army personnel. As was typical of the region, it was a gloriously hot day with blue skies as far as the eye could see.

Due to the lack of external stimulation between training sessions, it was often left to the personnel on site to find ways to keep themselves entertained. As a result, a five on five basketball game had started out in the yard and was now being cheered on by a good sized crowd of soldiers and staff who were enjoying a rare day off.

Thirty-six year old Steve Denton hesitated, bouncing the ball in situ as he tried to spot a teammate, his muscular body slick with sweat. Before joining the National Guard he had almost turned pro, and for as much as the opposition were putting up a good fight, it was obvious to see   they lacked his level of skill, that was, with one obvious exception. Denton eyed the player in question who stood eight feet away, watching Denton with sharp eyes. Unlike the others, he seemed both tireless and in possession of the skills Denton himself lacked which stopped him stepping up into the big leagues. He was tall, his shoulders broad and tapering into a thin waistline. His hair was long for a soldier and touched the nape of his neck. The man was now shirtless, however before he had removed it, Denton had caught his name which was embroidered onto the breast pocket. J. COOK. Denton didn't recognise the insignia on the shirt - the red skull on black with the letters P and A at either side, although it didn't surprise him. So many different units were on site at any one time that it wasn’t unusual for different squads to mingle and merge. Even so, pride meant a lot especially in the army, and he wasn't prepared to lose to a rival squad, even someone who seemed to tick all the boxes skill wise. With dismay, Denton noted that Cook, whoever he was, hadn't even broken a sweat despite the intense heat as they neared the middle of the day. Denton saw his buddy, Smithson unmarked and open. He feinted to the right, then passed left, watching as Smithson duly scored to draw the teams’ level. Cook looked furious. Denton tipped him a wink and a cheeky grin.

Game on motherfucker.

II

Commander James Robbins had spent the last three hours trying to chip away at the mountain of paperwork on his desk without success. He gave the stack of files and documents a sour glare as he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his temples, trying to coax away the persistent headache which he had woken with earlier that morning. A month shy of his fortieth birthday, he felt he was too young to be spending his days behind a desk, not that he had any say in the matter. Although as physically fit as a man twenty years his junior and a skilled combat veteran who had seen action in Iraq (twice), his superiors had seen fit to promote him into a position which was strictly off the field of battle. Rumour upon rumour did the rounds that he had been pulled off active duty because of an attitude problem, something which was entirely unfounded. Sure enough, he was harsh and direct with his words, but, no more than necessary to get the job done. His father, who was also a military man had instilled a philosophy into Robbins which had stuck with him as long as he could remember.

Don't go to work to make friends, boy. Go there to do what you have to, even if it means making the tough decisions nobody else will.

The advice had been followed to the letter, and Robbins quickly ascended the ranks of the military system, enjoying the rigid, ordered lifestyle. He had never married or had children. Not because he didn't want to, but simply because he had so devoted his life to the army. He knew, of course, he wasn't well liked. His short fuse and lack of tolerance for anything other than absolute perfection made him a man who most of those below him wanted to avoid wherever possible. His eyes had a natural glare, which perfectly suited his perfectly bald head which was kept that way through choice rather than necessity. Turning his attention back to his reports, Robbins tried to focus. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate, the words on the page may as well have been written in a foreign language for all the sense they made. He heard the dull sound of a cheer erupt from outside and cast an envious glance towards the window. He could see the basketball game in progress, and decided a little fresh air might do him the world of good and at least, let them clear his head a little before he went back to his reams of paper. He found it odd that when he first envisioned a career in the military, pen pushing wasn’t one of the things he expected to be spending his time doing. Tossing his pen on the desk, Robbins stood and stretched. The benefit of being his own boss meant he could make such decisions as leaving his reports until later. He reasoned he would stand a better chance of blasting through them with a clear head anyway. Besides, it was a Sunday, and even commanders deserved a little break from the daily grind sometimes. 

III

What had started out as a friendly game of basketball designed to pass a little time had become a fiercely competitive match up. The unforgiving sun baked the courtyard and the men who stood on it, their shadows pushed into long skeletal versions of themselves. Most had now dispensed with their shirts, and Denton was pleased to see others were looking as fatigued as he felt.

All apart from Cook, that was. He still looked fresh and still hadn’t broken a sweat. As those around him started to tire, Denton noticed how Cook was becoming a more dominant force within the game. With the scores tied at eighteen each, it was still all to play for. Denton caught the eye of Smithson, who, like him seemed to have taken an intense dislike to Cook. Maybe, Denton thought as the ball was passed to him, it was just their own jealousy which was to blame. Sure enough, Cook had a confidence about him, and Denton supposed it could easily be confused for arrogance. Smithson moved into space as Denton dribbled the ball towards Cook. He tried the same move as earlier, the feint and pass, but on this occasion, he overthought it and telegraphed it too much. Cook stepped forward and body checked Denton, knocking him to the floor.

"Hey, watch it, man," Smithson said, abandoning his position and approaching Cook. Smithson was a big guy, well over six feet tall with huge shoulders. Cook, however, didn’t seem at all intimidated by the larger man.

"My apologies, let me help you up," Cook said. His voice was soft and calm as he held a hand out to Denton, who still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t breathing heavy.

“Why the hell did you knock him down? Fuckin’ asshole." Smithson said, getting in Cook's face. The rest of the players had formed a rough circle around them now. Some waiting to break up any fight that might occur, others hoping it would come to blows so they could watch it play out.

Denton got to his feet, wiping his grazed palms on his pants. "Its fine, Forget about it," he said, not liking the cold look in Cook's eye as he glared at Smithson. "Let's just get on with the game."

"No, this prick did that deliberately." Smithson raged.

"You, sir might be wise to watch your mouth." Cook grinned as he said it, which heightened Denton's unease.

"Sir? Are you fucking kidding me? What unit are you?" Smithson said, pushing his chest out as his confidence grew.

"Special projects. Apex Team." Cook replied, remaining calm in the presence of the physically superior man.

Denton noticed two other men wearing the same insignia on their shirts as Cook had pushed to the front of the crowd and were watching the exchange, their expressions impossible to read.

"Well, Mr 'special projects', you happen to be in my back yard. This is my base. I’m stationed here. Most of these boys have my back. Now I think you owe my friend here an apology."

Cook didn’t appear to be in any way intimidated. He looked around the crowd, locking eyes with each and every man, then returned his icy stare to Smithson.

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"No," Smithson said with a shake of his head. "Just take it as a warning."

"You're not the only one who has people with him," Cook said, the threat in his voice clear.

"Yeah, I see that," Smithson shot back. "Way I see it; it looks like three of you and thirty or so of my boys."

"Three is enough." Cook fired back with a smile, which even despite the blazing heat, made Denton feel a wave of cold.

For as frustrated and angry as Smithson was becoming, Cook seemed perfectly cold and at ease. Denton decided he was either unafraid, crazy, or a brilliant bluffer, all of which meant trouble.

"You wanna start something little man?” Smithson said, poking a finger in Cook's chest. “I’ll fuck you and your boys up."

"Don’t do anything rash," Cook replied, calm as ever.

"Rash?” Smithson repeated, looking at the crowd with a grin. “You think you're better than me using words like that huh?"

Cook didn’t reply. He met Smithson’s gaze, unblinking, unwavering and without fear. To Smithson, the show of disrespect was like a red rag to a bull. He looked past Cook to his two squad mates.

"You got something to say?" Smithson said.

"Not to you.” One of the men replied with a smirk.

Smithson took a half step forward and was stopped by Cook, who grabbed his arm. “I wouldn’t do that.”

"Get your fucking hands off me," Smithson hissed, pulling himself free of Cook’s grip.

Denton noticed some of the other men had stepped out of the circle and were behind Smithson, the three Apex Team members now on the opposite side of a very obvious divide. Denton wanted to call them off, to tell them they were making a mistake. He looked at Cook and his men and saw nothing resembling fear or uncertainty. Since he first signed up, the army taught Denton to ignore such things as instinct and respond to orders without question. Denton had rejected that idea. He relied on and trusted his instincts without question, which made him wonder why he was more afraid for Smithson and his men than for Cook.